


Interim

by sachspanner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Baker Street, F/M, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachspanner/pseuds/sachspanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary shoots Sherlock, John returns to Baker Street for some space. Two men talk love, sexuality and the lack thereof. An uncommon view of John and Sherlock's relationship, taken from a place entirely too close to my heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interim

John did not mind being back at Baker Street, he told himself. He did not mind the fact that his wife had shot his best friend. He did not mind that she used a dead woman’s name and an accent that was not her own. He jabbed at the stir fry with his spatula.

“What did you eat?” he called into the living room. “What did you eat, while I was gone?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked what you ate. Dinner-wise.”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, John,” came Sherlock’s response.

“Really? Not once in the year and a half we lived together did I ever see you so much as boil the kettle.”

“Why would I?” Sherlock asked. “You were doing just fine.”

John scraped the meal onto two plates.

“Yes, well, I’m out of practice.”

He nearly added that Mary only ever allowed him near the stove when she was completely beyond exhausted, lest he treat her to watery soup or burnt pasta, but he kept this thought to himself. It was domestic, and Mary had proved herself to be nothing of the sort.

“It’ll do,” Sherlock sighed, holding out a hand for his plate without looking up from his book.

John had wanted to sit at the table. He obligingly placed the plate in Sherlock’s waiting hand.

“So, can you cook?” John asked.

“Of course I can. Do I need to? No.”

“Perhaps I’d like to try your cooking,” John suggested.

Sherlock looked up briefly, as if considering saying something.

“Never mind.”

He returned to his reading.

“Go on, what is it?”

“Well, that’s how it’s done, isn’t it? You cook people food when you… _you know_.”

John swallowed a mouthful.

“What? Live together?”

He knew what Sherlock was getting at, but enjoyed the other man’s displays of awkwardness in the face of Feelings. John set down his fork and settled back in his armchair.

“No,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And don’t think I don’t know you’re enjoying this.”

“Enjoying what?” John protested futile innocence.

Sherlock sighed irritably.

“Cooking for someone. It’s a… mating ritual, of sorts.”

He waved his hand around as he said the words “mating ritual”.

“A mating ritual?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock returned to picking at his food.

“A mating ritual?” John asked again.

Sherlock’s fork clattered to his plate, his brows drawn tight.

“Yes, John, it’s what an animal does when it’s trying to find something else to have sex with,” he snapped.

“Is that why you never cook?”

“I cook when I’m alone.”

“Do you even know how funny that is?” John said, more than a little amused.

“I understand why _you_ think it’s funny,” Sherlock replied, meaning it as an insult, but knowing enough to realise it would just bounce off John, remarkable idiot that he was.

“Sorry,” John said, almost meaning it. “So why is it okay for me to cook for you?”

“I told you the day after we met, remember?” Sherlock replied, returning to his meal.

“Refresh my memory?”

“At Angelo’s. You tried to chat me up,” Sherlock smirked.

“I did not try to chat you up. You got the wrong end of the stick. I was making small talk, trying to find out more about you.”

“Why? I learnt everything I needed to know about you in just a few glances.”

“Yes, well we can’t all be the world’s only consulting detective,” John said flippantly, putting his plate aside.

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

“I wasn’t trying to chat you up,” John repeated, sensing that the message had not gotten through.

“So you keep saying. To Mrs Hudson, Angelo, Donovan and faceless newspaper columnists who can’t even hear you.”

“Because I’m not gay. I am- was-no, _am_ married. Has it ever crossed your mind that I might tell them, repeatedly, because they’re wrong, repeatedly?”

“It might do. But I’m never wrong.”

“Yes you are.”

“Alright. Hardly ever wrong.”

“But I’m not gay,” John affirmed.

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock looked up, smiling gently.

“I’m glad we got that one cleared up,” John rose from his chair.

“No, we didn’t,” Sherlock sang in a way that John felt probably meant he was going to want to punch him soon.

The other man stood up.

“What is it then? What have I missed?” John asked.

“Even you couldn’t have missed… no, well,” he looked John up and down. “Then again, maybe you could.”

“Are you quite finished insulting me?” John asked.

“Probably, but then again it rather depends on your definition of the word insult,” Sherlock smiled in a manner that, on anyone else, would be regarded as disarming. When Sherlock smiled, however, it caused John to note the location of his gun. “John, have you ever heard the term ‘bisexual’?”

John closed his eyes and tipped his head heavenward.

“I’m not sure what I did to deserve this,” he muttered to himself.

 “You were a soldier too long, John.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t ask; don’t tell.”

“Yes, unless that escaped your notice, I did serve in the _British_ Army.”

“Written or unwritten, the same rules apply. If you share a bedroom with ten other men, you keep certain things to yourself.”

“Why would I hide? I have a gay sister.”

“An alcoholic sister. Hardly reassuring to a younger brother. How old were you when she started drinking? Fourteen? Old enough to be troubled by your own sexuality, certainly.”

John frowned in mild disbelief.

“You do know that deductive reasoning is flawed, don’t you?” he replied calmly.

“You’ve been on the internet again, haven’t you?” Sherlock replied scornfully, not quite disguising his hurt.

“Much as you pretend to be, you’re not a computer, and human reasoning is not computer logic.”

Sherlock made a derisive noise.

“No,” John continued triumphantly. “Human reasoning is built on emotion. You think I was hitting on you because you _wanted_ me to hit on you.”

“I said I was flattered,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“And every time the newspapers insinuated you and I were a couple?”

“You know the papers love that sort of thing. I needed to raise my profile to bait Moriarty.”

“No,” John shook his head. “How’s this for a deduction- _you’re_ the one attracted to _me_.”

“Not my type,” Sherlock gathered up the dishes with a half-smile.

“Come off it. What is your type? Not Janine, we know that much.”

Sherlock chuckled, setting down the dishes in the sink.

“No.”

“So, what is your type? If it’s not ex-military, neat, clean shaven. You know, I wondered why you hated that moustache so much.”

“Everyone hated that moustache,” Sherlock pointed out, running the water. “You only shaved it off because _I_ said I hated it.”

“You were just the final straw. But there you go again, Sherlock, reading into things that don’t exist.”

“Your argument has so many flaws it would take me all evening to explain them all.”

“Try me.”

“Well, for a start, despite noticing my complete lack of sexual company, you misinterpret that as pining after you.”

“It’s plausible,” John helped himself to a yoghurt, glad to have got Sherlock on the back foot.

“But unlikely,” Sherlock dismissed him.

“You never did like any of my girlfriends, did you?”

“Nor did you,” Sherlock seemed surprised that John hadn’t noticed.

“Were you jealous?”

Sherlock dried the plates vigorously.

“Were you?” John repeated.

“Much as it pains me to say this John, you are a man of some talent, a fact not reflected in your poor taste in women. I was rather hoping you’d eventually find someone more suitable.”

“Someone like you, you mean?”

Sherlock whirled around.  
“Someone like Mary,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Stomp back into the living room, sofa, sprawl, book, frown. John’s yoghurt lost its flavour.

“Mary?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock shuffled around a little.

“Your wife,” he reminded John.

“That woman,” John said slowly, “is not called Mary.”

“Well then take your laptop, plug in the USB stick you have taken to carrying around with you wherever you go, and read her file.”

John slumped into a chair.

“I’m scared, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up in irritation, but catching the expression on John’s face, softened.

“Would you like to borrow my skull?” he asked. “If you need someone to talk to, you can have it.”

John smiled weakly.

“I’ll be alright.”

“You are going to go back to her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” John conceded tetchily.

“Good.”

“But not yet.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said by way of response.

“Now what?”

“Well, if you’re going to be moving back in, the least you can do is cook.”

“Even if it’s just because I want to get off with you?”

Sherlock flinched.

“Yes.”

John sighed and reached for the paper. He’d had enough of that conversation. Or had he?

“Why did you flinch?” he asked.

“What?”

“Why did you flinch, when I joked about wanting to get off with you?”

“You’re offended?”

“Oh, only a little,” John raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“And yet you were offended at the thought of us being on a date, with no mention of romantic contact.”

John conceded the point with a shrug.

“Why are we not talking about Mary?” he asked.

“Because you don’t want to,” Sherlock replied. “And nor do I.”

“And yet we’re talking about my sexuality, because that’s a lot more comfortable.”

“Deduction. My area of expertise,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I can’t prove you wrong,” John realised.

“No. But you could prove me right.”

John frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I hadn’t meant that. And yet you thought it.”

“No, Sherlock, you thought it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“I did the dishes,” he said quietly, as if that was the only piece of information John needed to reach the conclusion he evidently just had.

John tried to humour him.

“Alright, so you did the dishes, and you never used to do the dishes. I’ve not been around for a while, you must have done them while I was away. Force of habit.”

“No,” Sherlock growled, fingers steepled. “Mating ritual.”

John swallowed.

“Sorry? What?”

“John, you heard me perfectly well.”

“I know, but then a vivid and unruly image of me, you and the kitchen table entered my mind and to be honest I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“I made a mistake, John.”

“I know,” he nodded. If Sherlock meant what he thought he meant, this was bizarre.

“Do you remember what I told you that evening at Angelo’s?”

“Ah- something to do with the killer, probably.”

“I said I was flattered, but I considered myself married to my work.”

John clicked.

“And I’m… I’m work, am I?”

“John Watson, the day you become work will be a sad day indeed.”

John looked around.

“I need a drink.”

“I imagine you do. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said, but you were suggesting that you already knew.”

“No. Just teasing,” John admitted from the drinks cupboard. “Always thought you weren’t that sort of man.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock agreed. “I certainly don’t want… the kitchen table scenario.”

John stopped pouring whisky and closed his eyes.

“Sherlock.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t enjoy making you feel uncomfortable, and yet I do.”

“You’re human after all,” John smiled wryly, taking a sip of his whisky.

“It would seem so.”

“So you’re attracted to me.”

“Evidently,” Sherlock sniffed. “Which doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not bisexual.”

“No, but I think I would have noticed by now.”

“John, from some of the evidence you present, I am surprised you manage to find the hole in your jumpers to stick your head through.”

“So you’re still insulting me?”

“I’m attracted to you, not blind to your numerous faults.”

“But you don’t want to fuck me on the kitchen table?”

Sherlock winced.

“No.”

“So what do you want to do?”

Sherlock frowned and looked probingly at John.  
“That’s not an invitation, by the way,” John clarified. “But I am going to be living here for the next few weeks.”

“And, due to recent events, any wank material featuring Mary will need to be replaced?” Sherlock teased.

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I know. Still a sore subject- why? She could have killed me, she could have killed Magnusson, but she didn’t.”

“She very nearly killed you.”

“But she didn’t. And she could have killed Magnusson, but she _didn’t_ ,” Sherlock repeated. “Think about that.”

John shook his head.

“You said it yourself. She couldn’t, not with a witness.”

“Magnusson’s vermin; he needs eradicating. I wouldn’t have turned Mary in and she knows that.”

“So why?”

“John, she could have killed Magnusson and got away with it; nobody saw her come in,” he waited for recognition to register on John’s features; it did not. “But they would have seen you. She knew you were downstairs.”

“How?”

“I don’t work alone; not any more. She knew you’d be with me, John, and she knew you’d be downstairs, being a doctor. She could have kept her secret, killed Magnusson- except you would have taken the blame. And she couldn’t do that.”

“Funny,” John snorted, as if it was anything but. “Any other time, the last thing on the planet I would want to talk about would be the fact that Sherlock Holmes fancies me. But now, Mary’s not Mary but rather a former assassin who apparently also loves me deeply, and suddenly, Sherlock, I’d rather talk about you.”

Sherlock twitched.

“Automatic subconscious response to your presence. Elevated heart rate, mild anxiety, tendency to watch your mouth as you speak. Symptoms.”

“And consciously?”

“I prefer not to think about it.”

“That makes two of us.”

“And yet you’re curious.”

It sounded like a challenge. For the first time in this entire ridiculous discussion –which, if John was honest, had been raging for years- John felt his foundations tremble.

“I’m not gay.”

“Established fact; Mary is pregnant and it’s certainly yours.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Back to my point, though. You want to know what I want from you.”

“Maybe,” John shrugged. “I just never… it’s you, Sherlock. You don’t.”

“I try not to.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock looked at John. Could he possibly understand his reasoning?

“It’s not sex which bothers me, but what happens afterwards. Arousal, oxytocin, pair bonding. This bonding, as you accidentally touched upon, skews human reasoning. Perhaps fatally.”

“So I should never have slept with Mary?”

“John, if I had a mind as feeble as yours, I wouldn’t worry too much about it becoming compromised.”

“Charming.”

“You know I don’t mean anything by it.”

John resigned himself; Sherlock didn’t mean anything by it.

“So not sex, then.”

“No. But I don’t think, disturbing mental image aside, that was what you wanted either.”

“Still not gay.”

“Still not straight,” Sherlock countered.

John played at the stitching on his armchair.

“And if I’m not?” he asked.

Sherlock almost smiled.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. “I said if.”

“Oh, you didn’t mean it.”

And Sherlock was away again, over to the table and the laptops and clicking through the media player for the right song- the wedding waltz.

“Not this, Sherlock,” John protested. “This was for my wedding. With _her_. It just reminds me of Mary.”

“And me,” Sherlock insisted. “I wrote it. For you.”

John found himself, slowly, getting to his feet, whisky abandoned.

“For the both of us.”

“But you’re my friend, John. You’re my only friend. I did it for you, because she made you happy. She will do again.”

“Maybe,” John sighed. “So what’s this all about?”

Sherlock carefully arranged their arms, legs, heads.

“Dancing,” he said. “Follow my lead.”

“When do I do anything else?”

Sherlock snuffled his peculiar laugh.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“So, is this it?” John asked. “We’re dancing now?”

Sherlock toyed with making a dry remark, but a bigger part of him than he would have liked encouraged him, instead, to savour the moment. The dancing, yes, but also the interim, the part of John’s life before he went back to Mary, and before Sherlock went back to being alone.

_“People will talk.”_

_“People do little else.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone keen on the progress of the sequel can follow me on LJ (sachtastic) or Tumblr (parkerdell). My hard drive failed, though, so it might be a wait.


End file.
